SoMa Week 2018
by awesomeasusual
Summary: Collection of stories based on prompts given by SoMa Week.
1. Chapter 1

When Soul was five, he had a dream that he played a concert in front of a large crowd, all white smile and and elegant gleaming jewels. He woke up thrilled and ran to the incredibly expensive piano on the bottom floor, the one for show, not for play. He smashed out a couple of notes before the maids' stare's burrowed holes in the back of his shaggy white head. His big brother sleepily patted his head and told him to try again later.

He called Soul's piece "cute."

The day after his sixth birthday, Soul is gifted a chess set. He promptly declared himself chess master and challenged every maid and butler to a instructed by his parents, the service staff quickly showed Soul that he was not anywhere near an expert. They crushed him, each and everyone. At the end of the day, Soul is left alone in his playroom, sulking and flicking over each piece one at a time until they tumbled to the floor.

When Soul was eight, he got a bicycle for his birthday. In his prepubescent excitement, he stole a bunch of fancy paints from his mother's art room and tried to paint flames on the body.

They looked like red and orange ghosts.

At 12, on his way to the DWMA, he imagined his meister would be some badass, someone who would take his super cool scythe powers to the next level. Whoever he was partnered with would be really cool, into motorcycles and and kicking kishin ass.

The things in his head didn't always work out quite the way he planned.

But Maka.

He' was 27 when, on the couch Maka curled into his side, book in her hands. His headphones stay firmly in his ears, but the sound is low, low enough to hear her chuckle or growl at the pages. He bites back on the smile that invades his lips, and pulls her closer. It knocks her off the perfect comfort position and she wiggles around until she's comfortable again, her sharp elbows digging into his ribs.

Maka's hair clogs the bathroom drain. She leaves her books all over the living room, and threatens to throw out his albums when he does the same to her precious books.

She's better than any fantasy he's ever had.


	2. Mirror

Soul ignores the honking from the drivers around him, and return the middle fingers of angry drivers when he catches them. He surreptitiously glances at the reflection in his rearview mirror while simultaneously trying to keep his eyes firmly on the road in front of him. His knuckles are white from the iron grip he has on the steering wheel. The car creeps along the road, Soul taking extra care with the speed bumps. He holds his breath as the car ascends and then descends, and almost chokes when the back tires hit the bump harder than he wants. He can feel Maka's death glare hit the back of his head but he keeps his eyes forward, taking the next turn extra slow, drawing the ire of the red truck behind him.

A small squeak from the back seats nearly makes him hit the breaks.

The baby, their daughter, first-born Albarn-Evans, her tuft of white hair sticking out from under her pink knit cap, sitting in the comparatively giant carseat, sighs.

Maka makes a noise of surprise. `

"What? Happened?" He demands.

"She yawned," Maka whispers reverently.

Soul frowns, having missed his daughters first yawn. "Did you take a picture?" He asks, hopeful.

"Of course I did. It's going in the baby book."

Soul nods to himself, pleased.

There is silence in the car as they continue home, until a warm hand lands on his shoulder. He grips his wife's hand.

"I love her," Maka says, the understatement of their universe.

He says nothing, just squeezes Maka's hand, admiring the sight of his new family in the rearview mirror.


	3. Distance

Maka stirs awake in her bed. Her hand blindly pats the space next to her, only to find it empty. She lifts her head blearily, eyes searching the spot Soul usually occupies.

Gone.

With a groan Maka rolls out of bed.

Sleepily, she wraps the comforter around her shoulders. It drags behind her like a train as she trudges down the hallway. This hallway is wider than in their old apartment, but Maka still treads carefully around the piles of half-unpacked boxes.

Without much thought Maka heads towards the music room (they have a whole room dedicated to music- a splurge that Soul nearly resisted, but Maka insisted, as his inheritance was supposed to go towards making their lives easier, more joyful).

Maka finds Soul with his head on the piano (another treat thanks to his inheritance). He snores lightly, his hunched-over back restricting his breathing.

"Hey, idiot," Maka says, nudging him with her barefoot. "Come to bed."

Soul lifts his head, his hair smushed on one side, a shiny bit of drool peeking from the corner of his mouth.

"I'm composing," he replies in the middle of a yawn.

"Later," Maka says, holding her hand out for him to take. "During normal waking hours."

Soul stares at her hand for a moment, like he's calculating the distance between their skin, and decides that it's too much. He takes her hand and pulls her close, guiding her to sit on the piano bench next to him. Maka gives a short laugh and wraps the comforter around his shoulders too, and rests her head on his bare chest.

They hold each other for a moment, listening to each other breathe, the only sound they need to sleep.

Eventually, wordlessly, they rise together and make their way back to their bed, where they lie until morning, wrapped into each other's arms.


End file.
